


grow into a lasting thing

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Episode: s01e11 The Magical Place, F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma and Fitz have a tendency to neglect themselves while they're sciencing--especially during desperate times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grow into a lasting thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphireBlueJiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireBlueJiyuu/gifts).



> So, some months ago, my darling Jan, who is sweet and lovely and perfect, celebrated a birthday. At the time, she told me she didn't want a fuss made of it, so I reluctantly scrapped my plans for a parade and shelved my fic idea. I also, however, hatched a sinister plot: to present her birthday fic as a Christmas fic instead! And so, with all my love, I present this humble offering of a fic to her (and to everyone else) with a "Merry Christmas!" that may or may not be hiding a "Happy Birthday!" behind it.
> 
> Title is from Beth Orton's _Lean On Me_. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Jemma has no idea how long she spends staring uselessly at her microscope before she’s tugged gently away from it.

“Ward! What—?”

“Come on, Simmons,” Ward says, ignoring her sputtering. Hands firm on her shoulders, he turns her away from the counter and steers her towards the door. “You need to eat.”

“I don’t need to _eat_ , I need to figure out…”

Her protests die midstream the moment they reach the cargo bay. The tarp the team has repurposed as a picnic blanket is spread out on the floor in front of Lola, and just the sight of it is enough to bring tears to her eyes.

She’s not certain precisely how their habit of having picnics in the cargo bay started—likely it was a combination of her and Fitz’s tendency to forget to eat when they get absorbed in their work and the minor tantrum Fitz threw about food in the lab the first time Skye tried to help by bringing them lunch—but over their months as a team, it’s become a near-weekly event.

Right now, it only serves as a reminder of just what’s at stake.

“You _do_ need to eat,” Ward insists—but gently. “You’re no good to anyone if you’re passing out from hunger.”

Swallowing back her tears, she nods, and he squeezes her shoulders (she’s pleased to note the strength in his splinted hand) and lets go.

“Sit down,” he says. “I’m gonna get Fitz.”

As he returns to the lab, she takes a seat on the tarp, back resting against Lola’s bumper. The thought of Coulson’s reaction to such a move—the memory of his not-entirely-playful glare—makes her heart clench.

He’s been missing for nearly two full days, now. There’s no telling what Centipede might be doing to him…or even if he’s still alive.

No. No, she mustn’t think that way. If Centipede wanted Coulson dead, they could have killed him on the bridge, as they did poor Agent Peterson. Centipede _wants_ something from Coulson, and that means he must still be alive. He must.

“All right, all right.” Fitz’s grumbling pulls her out of her thoughts, and she looks up to find him yanking away from Ward. “There’s no need for shoving.”

“Apparently there is,” Ward disagrees, and stares pointedly at Fitz until, with a heavy sigh, he sits on the tarp. “Thank you.”

Jemma’s heart gives a ridiculous and ill-timed _thump_ as Ward settles in next to her, close enough that their shoulders—and knees, as he crosses his legs—brush. The silly, girlish part of her which persists in maintaining a humiliating crush on him is thrilled that he’s chosen to sit so close when there’s so much space on the tarp, and she sternly quiets it. Their current position offers a perfect view of both the stairs and the lab, and as a specialist, Ward always positions himself very carefully; she’s certain his choice is entirely strategic.

“Now,” Ward says, “I know you geniuses have work to do, but I think you can spare five minutes to make sure you don’t faint in the middle of an experiment. Again.”

“That was _once_!” Fitz protests immediately. “And I was ill!”

Jemma is about to add her own argument—in Fitz’s defense, it was really more of a swoon than a faint—but as Ward opens the vintage picnic basket Coulson pulled out of nowhere back in October, her train of thought deserts her. He’s brought down pizza (oven-baked, of course, as delivery is rather out of the question mid-flight), and just the scent of it is enough to prompt a growl from her stomach.

She realizes, with some surprise, that she’s starving.

“Did we have lunch?” she asks Fitz. Now that she’s acknowledged her hunger, it’s gnawing at her unpleasantly, and it’s with relief she accepts the plate Ward hands her.

“’Course we did,” Fitz says, taking his own plate. “We had sandwiches.”

“That was yesterday,” Ward corrects, with no little exasperation.

Jemma exchanges a sheepish look with Fitz. “Oh.”

“And no, you didn’t have lunch today,” Ward adds. “Or breakfast. The last time you ate was when Skye forced some chips on you at four a.m.”

Smiling around a bite of pizza, she raises her eyebrows at Ward. That’s a very specific bit of knowledge for him to have, and as ever, the proof that he cares about them—even if not in precisely the way she’d prefer—warms her.

Fitz, on the other hand, appears offended. “What, do you two compare notes?”

“Yes,” Ward says flatly, and points at Fitz’s plate. “Eat.”

Despite his tone, he’s looking a bit red around the ears, and Jemma suppresses the urge to ‘awwww’ over it. He’s just…so adorable, and on top of his perfection as a physical specimen, it’s simply unfair. A man with those arms and those cheekbones should _not_ be so brave and secretly kind. How is she supposed to rid herself of her crush when he’s so—so _Ward_?

Of course, this is hardly the sort of thing she should be worrying about, at the moment—there are much larger issues at hand—but all of the alternatives are too depressing. Surely it’s all right to have a brief respite from panic and grief?

Unfortunately, the respite is very brief indeed. For a few minutes, they eat in silence, and Jemma, for one, is horribly aware of what’s missing.

There’s no Skye to keep the conversation going, no Coulson with his jokes about how nice it is to eat together like a family—not even May, to roll her eyes at them all. And while May is just upstairs, undoubtedly participating in yet another briefing…

Skye has been kicked off the Bus and Coulson has been kidnapped. And though they’re finally on the trail of finding him, Jemma and Fitz have not, as yet, devised a foolproof way of subduing the Centipede soldiers—aside from killing them, as Fitz prefers.

“So,” Ward says eventually. “Now that you’re finally eating, what are the chances I can convince the two of you to get some sleep?”

“Sleep?” Fitz echoes incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?”

“We can’t _sleep_ while Coulson is missing,” Jemma agrees. She’s very aware of the exhaustion weighing her down, but the mere _thought_ of what might happen while she slumbers is enough to terrify her. She won’t be sleeping until Coulson is safe and sound.

“Yeah, I figured,” Ward says. “It was worth a shot.”

Actually, speaking of sleep…

She peers at him suspiciously. “And when was the last time _you_ slept?”

“Probably the same time you did,” is his unconcerned response.

As that was some time ago—it’s been 48 hours since Coulson was taken, and that happened at the tail end of a very busy day that started _very_ early—Jemma is appalled.

“I hope _you’re_ on your way to bed, then,” she says sternly.

He stares at her, plainly disbelieving. “No.”

“ _Ward_ ,” she scolds. “How do you expect to properly protect us if you’re not at least marginally well-rested?”

“Okay, well, putting aside how hypocritical it is of you to lecture _me_ about needing sleep,” he says, with a hint of a smile that disappears almost immediately, “protecting you is exactly what I’m worried about.” He casts a suspicious glare at the lab—or rather, at the scientists Hand brought along with her. “There are too many unknowns on the Bus right now.”

Oh, Ward. It’s odd that she finds his paranoia endearing, isn’t it?

Or perhaps it’s merely pathetic.

“They are _not_ unknowns,” she says. She looks to Fitz, expecting support, and finds him eyeing their fellow scientists just as suspiciously as Ward. “They’re SHIELD agents, for goodness’ sake!”

“SHIELD agents under the command of a woman who left us to die,” Ward points out, and, well. That’s rather difficult to argue.

“Probably planning to do the same bloody thing to Coulson,” Fitz predicts direly. “You’ve heard her in those briefings, Simmons—she doesn’t care at all about rescuing him.”

She sighs. Certainly Victoria Hand has seemed very focused on taking down Centipede, and their repeated reminders of the importance of finding Coulson have only been met with annoyance, but Jemma can’t quite stretch her imagination to believing that _all_ of the many SHIELD agents on this plane are conspiring against them.

And in any case, Hand isn’t their only avenue of approach any longer.

“Well, that’s all right,” she says, infusing her tone with as much cheer as possible—a tall order, when she herself is so worried. “Skye’s looking for Coulson as well, and I have complete faith in her ability to find him.”

“So do I,” Ward says. He doesn’t sound particularly optimistic, however. “I just hope it’s not too late when she does.”

“It won’t be,” she insists, although of course she has no way of knowing, and in fact feels rather ill with the knowledge that it _already_ might be too late. “We’ll find him in time.”

“Simmons is right.” Fitz leans forward to deposit his empty plate in the picnic basket, then pushes to his feet. “Skye will find Coulson, and when she does, we need to be ready. So I’m gonna take another look at the injector cuff.”

“I’ll be along in a moment,” Jemma promises, and Fitz waves absently over his shoulder. She smiles fondly, knowing he’s already lost in thought, turning over possible ways to improve the device he’s designed.

“Injector cuff?” Ward asks, looking to her, and she nods.

“We’ve concluded that the best way to handle the Centipede soldiers is by injecting dendrotoxin directly into their delivery device. When I examined Agent Peterson—” she grimaces, suppressing another pang of grief for him _and_ for his newly orphaned son “—I discovered that the devices are equipped with a port, intended for refilling their serum, that will serve our purposes nicely. And as the soldiers are unlikely to stand politely still and wait to be injected, Fitz has designed a cuff to do the job for us.”

Ward nods thoughtfully. “Smart.” He pauses. “And you?”

“What about me?” she asks.

A giddy sort of heat burns in her chest as he studies her. He has such lovely brown eyes—warm and serious—and being the full focus of their scrutiny would be enough to make _anyone_ lightheaded.

Wouldn’t it?

“You looked pretty upset when I pulled you out of the lab,” he says. “You wanna tell me what that’s about?”

Oh. That.

“Not really,” she says honestly, and he smiles a little.

“Tell me anyway,” he…suggests? Orders? He’s been a bit authoritative since Coulson was taken; it’s actually fairly thrilling.

“I’m having difficulty determining the best dosage of dendrotoxin,” she says. “The normal amount, of course, is ineffective against Centipede soldiers, but too much could be fatal. I need to find the precise dosage to incapacitate, but not kill.”

He nods, accepting that at face value, but having spent the last day or so defending her stance to Fitz, she feels the need to state her case.

“The Centipede soldiers are being controlled,” she says. “They had no more say in Coulson being kidnapped than you or I, and they don’t deserve to die for what they’ve been forced to do.”

“Okay,” Ward says.

“You _saw_ how Coulson reacted to Akela Amador and her circumstances,” she presses. “He wouldn’t want us killing—”

“ _Simmons_.” Ward’s hand lands on her thigh and squeezes firmly, silencing her at once. “It’s okay. You’re right; if Coulson was here, he’d be the first to tell us to use non-lethal force.”

There are giddy butterflies bouncing around her stomach, completely at odds with the lump of emotion in her throat. Abruptly, she’s hyperaware of everything: the weight of his hand on her thigh, the press of his knee against hers, the warmth of his body all along her side.

This is no time to be distracted by her crush. It’s reprehensible to be getting dizzy over a little physical contact when Coulson is missing.

“But what if I’m wrong?” she’s resigned to hear herself ask. It’s been running through her head all day; she supposes it was bound to slip out sooner or later, and her state of distraction over Ward isn’t a surprising catalyst. “What if I misjudge the dosage and the dendrotoxin is ineffective and our rescue efforts fail? What if you or May or Coulson _die_ because I want to save the enemy?”

On the bright side, actually voicing her fears very effectively does away with the butterflies in her stomach. Unfortunately, the voicing comes with a side of the tears she’s been fighting all day. She buries her face in her hands, too upset even to be mortified over crying in front of Ward.

Speaking of whom, there’s so little space between them she can _feel_ him tense, and knowing how uncomfortable she’s probably making him only multiplies her misery.

She struggles for a long moment, trying to fight back her tears and hitching sobs without much success. Her mind is full of terrible things—Mike and Ace Peterson, the Centipede soldiers, _Coulson_ and what he must be suffering this very moment—and she just can’t seem to stop it from producing more with every breath she takes. Her exhaustion doesn’t help in that regard; she’s overwrought, and it makes it so much harder to suppress her overactive imagination.

She’s startled into a complete absence of thought, however, when Ward’s arm wraps tentatively around her shoulders.

“We won’t,” he says. He’s stiff and awkward beside her, but his voice is perfectly soothing. It’s just low enough to rumble through her and settle comfortingly in the hollow of her chest. “You’re the smartest woman on the _planet_ , Simmons. You’ll figure out the dosage.”

“But if I don’t—”

“If you don’t,” he interrupts, “May and I will take care of the soldiers.” He hesitates, then tugs her even closer—and despite how clearly he’s broadcasting his discomfort, she willingly accepts the invitation, curling her legs beneath her and cuddling into his side. She’s too greedy for comfort to do the kind thing and refrain. “We handled them okay at the factory, and this time we’ll actually be ready for them.”

It’s hardly a guarantee, but his words ease something in her nonetheless.

Or perhaps that’s down to his embrace.

“Everything is gonna be fine,” Ward says into her hair. “I promise.”

He can’t promise that any more than she can promise they’ll find Coulson in time, Jemma knows. And yet still, somehow, she believes him. Maybe it’s the comfort of his arm around her shoulders, maybe it’s the confidence in his voice—maybe it’s just her own desperate need for reassurance—but whatever the reason, she trusts Ward to keep his promise.

A little of the hope that has leeched out of her over the course of the last two days returns, and it gives her the strength to pull away from him.

She needs to return to the lab (that dendrotoxin won’t measure itself), but first…

“Thank you,” she says, and kisses his cheek.

Then, slightly horrified by her own daring, she flees back to the lab before she can see his reaction.

Still, she’s smiling as she gets back to work. That’s something.


End file.
